


Episode 22: Hear Me, Brother

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Clan Meso'a [22]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Clan Meso'a, Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, clan dynamics, important ancestors, learning from your elders, strong Mandalorian women, wisdom through conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 18:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18816898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: "Speak clearly so even the mountain will hear you." ~Meso'a proverbTam recounts the story of Lady Fiyn, Vin'alor of the Winged Serpents





	Episode 22: Hear Me, Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Baal'ta -hear me  
> Baal'ta'ra -hear my words  
> Naal'ta'hast -lit. see my blood; no real Basic equivalent  
> Vaal'ta'soah -wait [for] my word  
> Ta'ven'coat -I will go  
> Tir -no  
> Ta ven'brali -I will prevail  
> Na'til'ka -his grave, lit. his ground fire  
> Ori'vod be'Veral'ro -friend of Veral'ro  
> Ta'fassra/Ta'fassra'na -I trust/I trust you

Artus Lok, Mandalore the Vindicated, was leading a charge against the invading forces of Zakuul. They were merciless, slaughtering and subjugating system after system, but Lok was determined to make a stand against them, to protect his people and his allies, from their tyranny. Long range transmissions often get broken up before they reach us, but one day, we heard it: a desperate call to aid blasted across all channels. Then-alor Vax’vad, the fourth Yaun, called a council of the tribes and declared that he and his Rachi would depart for the Core along with one hundred warriors to aid our Mand’alor...but the tribes disagreed. Zakuul was too strong, too unknown of a force for us to willingly send our alor, the head of our clan, into battle. He was adamant that he had to go; the others continued to challenge him, plead with him to reconsider, but he refused to listen. Amid the arguing, Lady Fiyn, Vin’alor, the youngest of the tribal alor, stood up. The assembly ignored her at first, continuing to shout and bicker with one another. So, she took her spear from her attendant, walked out into the main floor in front of the council, spun it once over her head, and slammed it down two inches into the floor. All grew quiet. She surveyed them one by one, and then she spoke loudly for all to hear:  
“Vode, baal’ta!” She put her hand on her chest, “Baal ta’ra! Naal ta’hast! Vaal ta’soah, ta’ven’coat.”  
“Tir, ori’vod,” Baradta, alor be aliit Dunuul, shook her head, “You are too young. Your tribe still needs you.”  
“I will not perish,” Fiyn replied, steadfast and unmoving in her stance and expression, “Mando’ade, be Haria Enad, Ta ven’brali!”  
Invoking the ancestors made several attendees shift uncomfortably as her declaration made them honor bound to reply. If they dissented, would they be denying her choxul? If they acquiesced, would they be sending her to her death, therefore cutting her life short? It was then that Veral’ro, Vin’alor be aliit Chochoma, stood. Silently, he slid his chair back and hoisted himself up. Of the assembled he was the oldest and considered the wisest of them all, even by the alor. It was he who oversaw the creation of the Meso’a armada, he whose parents constructed the grand citadel of the Chibala, and his children who lead the enforcers guarding the continent from outsiders. By now his face was gnarled and scarred from hunts and training the tribe’s Jiiya, and he was missing one of his horns. His hands were shaky but gripped his cane so hard it nearly shattered each time he grasped it. Fiyn turned to him, her grey eyes like polished disks of beskar.  
“Baba?” his granddaughter and chief attendant, Hauel, whispered.  
The Chagrian turned ever so slightly to her and whispered back, his cracked lips barely moving. Fiyn took a deep breath. She didn’t falter, but whatever he said was always regarded as if it came from a sacred text. As he was nearing na’til’ka, Hauel spoke for him:  
“Ori’vod be’Veral’ro,” she lifted her chin and crossed one arm behind her back.  
Fiyn did the same.  
“Alor Fiyn,” Hauel continued, “Ba’buir applauds your bravery. He acknowledges your desire to fight, to defend our peoples across the galaxy from the usurpers.”  
Fiyn didn’t move. She made no indication that the words moved her in any way.  
“Therefore, Veral’ro asks that you choose the Rachi to meet with Mand’alor.”  
The assembly began to murmur, even the alor looked stunned.  
Veral’ro raised a finger. All went quiet and still.  
“He does ask,” said Hauel, “That you do not go with them, not until we know that you will make it to Mand’alor.”  
Fiyn nodded, “Ta’fassra'na Veral’ro. I will see to it.”  
All eyes turned to Yaun. He’d been watching the exchange, his brow furrowed and his eyes searching the air for something invisible.  
Fiyn approached him and extended her hand. He stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor echoed through the hall, sending a chill down the spines of those watching the council from the isles. He regarded her, his eyes narrowed.  
“I do not need your protection,” he said so only she could hear.  
“Not your protection,” Fiyn replied, gently taking his hand, “Our protection. If you fall our scramble to elect a new leader will send us into chaos while our brothers and sisters die to protect our right to exist.”  
“Ta’fassra’na, vod,” he shook his head, “But-”  
“No usurper will extinguish your flame,” she put his hand against her breastplate over her heart.  
Her brother looked up at her wearily, “Should I lose you..”  
She stood up on her toes and put her forehead to his. He reluctantly accepted the gesture.  
“Should you lose me, then the mountain would fall. And what, vod, do we say about the mountain?”  
He smirked despite himself, “You’ll grow grey before the mountain speaks.”  
She slowly pulled away. The other alor were on their feet, a mixture of determination and concern coloring their features. Baradta, face flushed red, puffed out her chest and huffed loudly, tore her spear from her attendant, spun it once over her head, and threw it down at Fiyn’s feet.  
She threw back her head, her long, black dreads sweeping behind her like a raging river as she bellowed at the top of her lungs: “Be Haria Enad!”  
The room erupted into a cacophony of whoops and hollers, shaking the banners clinging to the walls and filling Fiyn with more pride than she thought her body could hold-

“Yes dear?” Tam paused, noticing Cara twisting her cords in her lap.  
“Why throw the spear at her feet?” she tentatively asked, eyes unfocussed as she tried to picture the scene.  
“Throwing the spear is a way of challenging someone,” Cho explained, “When you throw the spear, you are telling the recipient that whatever they are doing is being met with a challenge. Either because you disagree and are going to fight their position, or because you agree and you want them to know you are holding them accountable.”  
“In other words,” said Jecho, “The spear means whatever you are doing, you must see it to the end. Whether that end be a fight with the challenger or the completion of your task.”  
“So.. Baradta was telling Fiyn that she had to fight with Mand’alor?”  
“No,” Weiyn shook her head gravely, “She had to prevail.”  
Cara studied the cobblestone at her feet, the gravity of Fiyn situation slowly settling on her shoulders like a lead weight.  
“Did she?”  
“Hush, kex’ika,” Cho whispered as Tam had taken another long, deep breath.


End file.
